


merry and bright

by leaveanote



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), holiday fluff, they heal each other, they take care of each other, they're soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: Make the Yuletide bright and gay! An ongoing collection of my ficlets for drawlight's ineffable advent calendar. I'm expecting to hit around half, as I have other ongoing projects, but expect ineffable holiday fluff, kisses, and swiftly soothed ache, likely all set in the South Downs cottage. Pink cheeks and mistletoe, knitted scarves and a fireplace. A love so good it takes some getting used to, and they're letting themselves slowly get used to it.Rating may or may not go up.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 179





	1. mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy <3 check out my other fics & talk to me about ineffable kisses on tumblr @ letmetemptyou

There hasn’t been a much of a snowfall, not yet. There’s only the silver bite of frost in the cliffside air, the sharp of it creeping into the doorjambs and windowsills before Crowley remembers to seal it out. The South Downs seems to teeter on the precipice of winter, and its inhabitants are in the throes of holiday decorating.

Aziraphale comes home from the village one afternoon to find that Crowley’s got the cottage strewn with fairylights. The front of it is all smothered in the  _ worst  _ sort, the garish multi-colored kind blinking in the most irritating patterns--but on the inside, he’s made a wonderland. Twinkling gold dots line a tree, wreaths of holly, the mantelpiece on which perches a magnificent silver menorah, the bookshelves too. There’s candlelight and he’s built a fire in the hearth too, and there’s Crowley in the middle of the kitchen, white up to his knobbly elbows in flour, sliding the cookie tray into the oven.

“This is quite something, darling,” Aziraphale says faintly, quite overcome. Crowley gets the oven going, pulls off his lumpy oven mitts and comes to him, an enormous smile on his face. The cottage smells like pine and chocolate chip, and Aziraphale is desperately,  _ awfully _ in love.

“Hope you like it, angel, ‘cause none of it’s going anywhere.” 

“I do, you  _ sentimental  _ thing,” Aziraphale replies. His arms go to wrap around Crowley’s waist, but to his surprise, Crowley seizes him by the shoulders  _ none  _ too romantically and looks up instead, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth and shutting one eye as if to line something up. He walks Aziraphale backwards a few steps. “What in the--”

“There we go,” Crowley says, a hint of pride and mischief there in his voice, the ridiculous, gorgeous creature. It’s been quite overwhelming in the best way to see Crowley... _ happy.  _ They’ll never be unguarded, free of divine or infernal danger, but they’re closer than they’ve ever been, and they’re taking advantage of it. Crowley is happier than Aziraphale’s ever seen him, and he knows why, and that feels quite holy, indeed. 

“What,” he says again,” in the world are you on about?”

“Didn’t think you noticed one of my favorite decorations,” Crowley says. His grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders has softened, turned to a gentle, familiar clasping, tugging at his curls. “Wanted to show it to you properly.” He turns his glance skyward again, and this time, Aziraphale’s eyes follow him. They land on a small sprig of mistletoe, tied there to a hook in the ceiling Crowley appears to have fastened just for this purpose.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his cheeks warming. Crowley is  _ beaming,  _ his own cheeks quite pink as well. He moves to set his hands around Crowley’s waist again, and this time he does. “I love it. I love all of this, it’s beautiful. Very cozy.  _ But,”  _ he continues, nuzzling Crowley’s jaw, “you don’t need an excuse to kiss me.” He looks up, into Crowley’s bright eyes, gleaming there like fairylights, like the North Star, like a flame burning a lifegiving light, even when it wasn’t expected to. “Not anymore.”

Crowley pauses. Aziraphale watches him swallow, watch the muscles in his throat work. It’s taking some getting used to, this fresh new world they get to explore, together. Aziraphale is very much enjoying the process.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to take every chance I can get, angel,” he says at last. His smile has gentled, warmed.

“Good,” Aziraphale whispers. He threads his hands through his love’s holly-red hair. “Well,” he says, grinning. “Go on, then.”


	2. snow angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snow angels are a cruel human invention. 
> 
> and in the expanse of snow and winter, some long-held secret truths are bound to come to light.

Snow comes to the South Downs with hardly a warning, just the cold bite of frost in the air one day and fluffy flurries the next. Folks have their hands full with shoveling—Aziraphale makes sure that the treebranches cover the walks of those most likely to slip, while Crowley moves all the black ice into the driveways of the bigoted couple down the lane. Not enough to hurt them, just enough to get the husband to shriek he’s finally moving them back to the city, he’s had enough of the blasted village this winter at last.

Crowley’s ready for all that, has even been looking forward to it a bit.

What he isn’t prepared for is what he sees as they pick their way carefully home from the grocer, in the afternoon after the first snow, when the flakes have slowed to a gentle falling and the fields and yards are covered in knee deep powder.

Children are making snow angels.

He hoists the shopping bags higher, grateful for his glasses even as they fog with frost. He really shouldn’t be so soft about it, it  _ shouldn’t  _ make him ache, children have been doing it for hundreds of years. 

“Let me take one of those, dear,” comes a warm voice at his side, “you’re looking a little peaky.”

“No—angel, your hands are full.” Crowley’s cheeks are pink, and not just because of the cold. Aziraphale is indeed carrying just as many bags as he is. There seems to be no end of recipes to try, they fail at as many of them they succeed in making, the night either ending in a fresh sumptuous feast and stuffed bellies or a mess of botched ingredients and takeaway containers, and either way leads to them falling asleep in each other’s arms on the sofa, which is to say,  _ embarrassingly  _ perfect. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Aziraphale says mildly, peering at him. Of course his eyes look  _ stunning.  _ They always do, at that, but they’re gem-bright and brilliant in the midst of the greywhite snow. “Whenever you’re ready, darling, I’m—ah.” Aziraphale gazes past him, to where a handful of schoolchildren are screeching as they flap their arms like makeshift wings, burrowing into the snow. Crowley’s cheeks redden deeper.

“C’mon, it’s cold. Let’s get home.”

“Let’s not,” Aziraphale says suddenly, and then he’s stopped walking.

“Angel, what’re you—” Crowley cuts off as he feels a powerful surge of magic, then a much smaller one that lifts the groceries out of his arms. “Hey!”

“Made sure no one was looking first, and yes I remembered to get the perishables to the refrigerator.” Aziraphale steps close, adjusts Crowley’s scarf around his throat with mittened hands, and fuck, Crowley loves him a whole buggering lot. 

He tells him so. Still getting used to saying it, still feels like he’s getting away with something, but he’s trying, he’s trying, he’s getting there.

“I love you too, dear,” Aziraphale says, but doesn’t lean in to punctuate it with a kiss like he otherwise might. He tilts his head  _ (awfully  _ cutely, no one has the right to tilt their head that cutely) to the side and bites his lip. “Tell me about it. If you’re ready. If not, we can walk home, but—”

“Just hate the propaganda of it, is all it is,” Crowley mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. They glance out at the children, fanning their legs out and giggling. “The skirts and wings and all. You don’t get to keep  _ any  _ of that when you fall, I mean, really.” He glances Heavenward, flinches, shakes his head, his cold curls against his cheeks. “I didn’t have anything to do with those, that’s all the humans doing, I wouldn’t’ve made it into something  _ fun _ , I mean. Falling like that. And don’t get me started on bloody  _ snowmen!  _ Make a man in your image, watch them melt? Wonder who came up with that one, fucking sick, honestly, and they’ve got  _ children _ doing it, and I  _ know  _ I shouldn’t take it personally,  _ obviously,  _ but I guess I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting—”

“I’m glad you fell.”

Aziraphale says so softly it nearly gets lost in the wind.

“I—you what?” Crowley’s heart is hammering hotly in his chest, he didn’t know what he wanted to come from talking about this, but  _ this,  _ he never,  _ ever— _

“I’m so sorry if that’s a horrible, cruel, selfish thing to say, obviously I wish there had been another way, and I hope it goes without saying that I never wanted you hurt, never wanted you feeling like you were evil or less than like you’ve been made to, but I can’t help it!” Aziraphale’s gone very pink himself, getting the words out as quick as he can like he’s eager to know Crowley understands the whole of what he’s saying. “But—but if you hadn’t questioned Her—none of this would have happened! Neither of us would have questioned the Plan, and the world would have been destroyed, and we’d be immersed in an eternal war  _ against  _ each other, and there wouldn’t be any snow or any children or any cottage or any  _ us,  _ and I am so, so sorry that you have to hurt like this when you remember that you fell, but I’m so grateful it turned out this way that I feel I should say it, because this way, I get to love you.” Aziraphale pauses, panting slightly. Snowflakes get caught in his hair. It doesn’t look like a halo, it just looks damp. Crowley’s going to towel it off in front of the fireplace later, very soon, in a cottage that belongs to them both. “Most importantly, really, the part I should have led with, is that there wouldn’t be any  _ you,  _ because you  _ are  _ fallen, you  _ are  _ a demon, and you’re perfect, I don’t want you a whit different. I don’t want an angel, I don’t want anyone, anything else at all, I want you, everything you are, just exactly—exactly as you are, Crowley.” 

“Oh,” Crowley says. Everything suddenly feels very bright, even the grey sky, even the children squawking in the distance.  _ “Oh.” _

“Er,” says Aziraphale. “Yes, well. Yes. But I cut you off, darling, I’m sorry—if there’s anything else you want to talk about—”

“I mean, I’m sure my millennia-old trauma will pop up again,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers to waterproof the phones and wallets in their pockets, “but in the meantime, um.”

Aziraphale screams as Crowley tackles him into the snowbank, and then they’re kissing, warm and damp and familiar and perfect. It's freezing and their clothes are getting soaked, and they’re kissing and he’s home, here in Aziraphale’s arms, and Crowley’s loved,  _ all  _ of him, so much and so obviously he can’t deny it. 

“This kind of snow angel,” Crowley murmurs into his mouth, “I can very much get used to.” 


	3. phoenix love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when something was burned to the ground, it doesn't heal in a day. 
> 
> but Crowley's getting there.

It’s taking some getting used to. Crowley used to despise winter nights, or fiercely like them in some self-loathing way, the sheer emptiness, the frigid damp of Mayfair. 

Now, though, it’s their first winter in the cottage, and night comes with cocoa and a tangling of limbs on the couch, getting winedrunk to an embarrassingly romantic film or Aziraphale propping a book up on Crowley’s knees while a gentle record plays. Even the frost in the air makes the warmth feel cozier, and Aziraphale has been knitting  _ mittens,  _ for someone’s sake, he says Crowley’s leather gloves don’t do the trick and he’s tired of getting those frozen hands pressed to his face (though he never pushes them away), and altogether, Crowley’s somewhat dizzy with how good it feels. 

So much so that on this particular night, with Ella crooning on the record player, the lights out but for the fireplace and the fairylights, Crowley dozes off. His head in Aziraphale’s lap, the angel absently stroking his hair as he flips through a book. 

And it may be something of the wine or the way the smoke carries that night, or perhaps just remnants of Crowley’s wretched subconscious deciding he’s gotten far too content, but the nightmare crashes into him like ice, plunging into the depths of his heart. 

It always starts with the smell. Thick ash and something else, likely the leather bindings burning but it was horribly like a warning of flesh, Crowley will never forget. The sight of an inferno so encompassing Crowley’s miserable heart couldn’t process it at first, was so  _ sure  _ Aziraphale would be just there, would emerge out from behind a bookshelf, coughing and furious but  _ there,  _ and then he wasn’t. He wasn’t, and his absence was an unmaking. At the brink of the apocalypse, Crowley’s world ended, right there in the bookshop. 

The truth hit harder than the fireman’s hosewater, than the searing heat from the flames. Aziraphale, gone,  _ forever,  _ and no matter how much Crowley thought he might have meant it when he said  _ and I won’t even think about you!  _ the truth was there, a millennia-old love made obsolete, extinct, extinguished by the fire, and everything,  _ everything _ was for nothing--

“Darling--Crowley, dear?”

Crowley doesn’t realize it was a dream at first. He wakes into the smell of smoke, a cry wrenching from his chest, but Aziraphale’s right there, holding him, a furrowed brow and his worried mouth. Crowley goes to sit up but Aziraphale pulls him into his arms, cradling him, one arm around his shoulders, the other on his chest.

“Hey,” he says quietly. Aziraphale does not need to ask. It’s not the first time, and it will not be the last. 

Some wounds take time. Crowley had been unmade by terror and grief. That doesn’t mean he’s not healing, that doesn’t mean something strong and beautiful cannot grow there too. When a forest is scorched to the ground, it does not return in a day. 

Crowley takes a deep, steadying breath. The fire is smoldering gentle in the hearth, contained there. Heat, of their own making, only here to warm. 

Slowly, slowly the panic seeps from him, and the guilt starts to seep in, the shame. To be so  _ demonstrative,  _ so obvious and desperate, messy in this love--but Aziraphale takes his hand in his own, presses his lips there just below the silver band on his finger.

“I’m here,” he says, and he does not only mean now, after the nightmare and he does not only mean then, after the fire.  _ I’m here,  _ a reminder of their vows. “I love you,” he murmurs, and kisses the knuckle next to it, “all of you, all of you,” the next finger, the next, “whatever you need, darling. I’m here.” 

Crowley tilts his head up and catches Aziraphale’s mouth in his own.  _ Nah, don’t worry about me,  _ he bites back.  _ Don’t--it’s nothing-- _ he doesn’t say. 

The thing about fire is that sometimes, what grows back is so much stronger. Crowley knows what he has lost. He thought he’d squandered six thousand years of opportunity. He’s trying very, very hard not to waste another moment holding back the truth.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, instead. An enormous, knowing, grateful smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley kisses it and kisses it. “I love you, too.”


	4. all i want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the holidays can be a time of nonbelonging. the pain of being cast out for who you are, for what you're not, heightened and sharpened.
> 
> if that speaks to you, just know it speaks to crowley too.
> 
> and that aziraphale loves both of you, very much.
> 
> this one goes out to making new traditions. making your own hearth.

“Are you headed to the service, loves?”

The kindly older neighbor doesn’t mean anything by it, of course she doesn’t. Mentions it as just a thing to say when they cross paths, as the pair are headed home from the cozy bistro in town, Aziraphale full of quite a variety of Christmas pies and Crowley full of coffee and goddamned butterflies, as always. 

She doesn’t mean anything by it, but Crowley stiffens anyway. 

“No, we’ve got our own plans,” Aziraphale calls to her, tightening his grip on Crowley’s arm ever so slightly, “but you have a lovely time, my dear! Merry Christmas!”

“Thank you, sweetheart, and to you both!” she responds cheerily, doesn’t give it another thought. 

Crowley’s ears are burning, and not only from the cold. 

It’s enough, it’s more than enough. It’s more than he ever thought he deserves. Aziraphale makes him feel like he does, like he’s worthy of it, but it still takes some getting used to. A cozy home, one full of old books and scrolls and his terrible art too. A garden he gets to scold and secretly (not so secretly) preen over, a kitchen he gets to keep bustling, to make concoctions that get Aziraphale’s eyes to light up, and oh help, a bedroom, one they get to go to together. And it’s not just the filthy bits Crowley loves (though he bloody well does, can’t get over that either), but the embarrassingly soft bits too. Aziraphale nodding off on his shoulder, there on the sofa before the fire. Waking up with the angel curled up on his chest, or lazily threading his fingers through the locks he’s asked Crowley to let go long. And in the chill of winter, it’s warm with candlelight and tinsel, fresh cookies and warm coffee and an absolute, unapologetic abundance of love.

It’s...heaven. In the right way, the way that counts. Heaven as  _ Heaven _ never was, a true paradise, and Crowley’s still getting used to it (he probably never will). 

And yet. A dart like that, a pang. Nearly half the village goes to the Christmas service. There’s enough atheists and folks of other faiths who don’t so they don’t  _ stand out,  _ but it is obviously different for the two of them. Aziraphale  _ is _ the bloody service.

And Crowley is cast out. He knows he’s in the right. He knows he wouldn’t change a thing about his choices. 

But the holidays, for some, have a way of opening old wounds. Reminding you of where you don’t belong, of where, perhaps, you once did. Places that used to be home, memories of love and belonging twisted by hate and cruelty and a strict adherence to a system that  _ doesn’t make sense,  _ a system that  _ actively hurts people just for questioning it.  _

Crowley knows they’re in the wrong. But to be reminded that the place you’re from would burn you just for trying to go back—that still can sting, no matter how far you’ve come.

“Dear,” Aziraphale says softly. They’ve reached the front door. Aziraphale unlocks it, the warmth of their home reaching out, embracing Crowley. It smells like the two of them here, pine and cinnamon too. “I had an idea. I know we planned on spending tomorrow just the two of us, but you know what absolute monsters Warlock’s parents have been to her, and even though she’s off at uni now, I thought it would be nice to—”

“Fuck yes,” Crowley says immediately, his chest suddenly warm. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

“Oh, good! I thought you’d think so.” Aziraphale turns to him, brushing the snow from his shoulders, undoing his scarf. Letting the warmth in, holding him close. “She says she might bring a few friends? Others with no place to go.”

“She’d better,” Crowley says fiercely, “every year.” He blinks very fast, seizes Aziraphale’s hands before he gets Crowley’s coat open. “In fact. Let’s not stop there, yeah? We’ve got the room. Let’s fuck with some bigots and do what Jesus would have bloody wanted.”

Aziraphale grins at him. Plants a kiss on his nose, and gets his own hat back on. 

“I love you, Crowley. All of you. Very,  _ very,  _ much.” 

“I love you too, angel, now let’s get going!” Crowley’s nearly giddy with the idea, sending little demonic miracles into their kitchen as they set out the door, stretching their table, getting the cooking on. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Oh, yes, oh goodness!” Aziraphale claps his hands together, and they head out to invite every queer kid in the South Downs.

They end up with nearly thirty guests on Christmas Day, and they’re not just kids. There’s around ten adults, twenty-somethings and older folks, whose families still don’t want anything to do with them. The cottage bustles with community and love, food and silly games and Aziraphale’s terrible magic tricks, Crowley’s stories of Christmases past  _ (long _ past) that only Warlock believes. 

As the night wears on and folks trickle home, Aziraphale makes sure they know they’re always welcome, that they always have somewhere to go (and he sends little miracles after each of them. So take that, anyone who dares say queer and trans folks aren’t blessed). 

Aziraphale comes to Crowley, exhausted but beaming, and takes him into his arms.

“You’re a wonder, you know that?” Crowley says.

“So are you, dear,” Aziraphale says, and kisses him. 

And in this way we make our own community. Our own belonging, in the way that counts, with the people who see us for who we are and love every bit. Our own home, our own love, the truest, most blessed kind. 

Happy holidays, all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, you can tell why i wrote this one.
> 
> my love to every queer and trans person feeling as left out by family as i do, now and yearround. 
> 
> i see you and i love you, and so do aziraphale and crowley.
> 
> you belong. you matter, and you're wonderful, just as you are -- today and every day of the year.
> 
> happy holidays <3
> 
> i hope you liked it! talk to me about ineffable kisses on tumblr @ letmetempt you <3


End file.
